


Send Your Camel To Bed

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Gen, Mixed Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had something written here about how the seed of friendship manages to flourish in the sandiest of deserts, but I had to delete it as it was just too cheesy.  Oh, wait...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Send Your Camel To Bed

Marcel had never met anyone like Oleksandr before. He was still giddy from the weekend in Logroño, and had barely finished checking into the Rabat hotel before he was accosted.

'I don't care, you know.' The tone was even as the skinny guy picked up one of Marcel's bags and walked him to the lift, but the look he gave was, Marcel thought, meant to be steely. He bit his lip to stifle a snigger as a wisp of blond hair escaped from a haphazard bun and got puffed angrily away.

'Oh, OK. I, um...probably didn't expect you to care, actually.' Marcel smiled broadly in an attempt to convey his harmlessness to the creature tapping his toe angrily at him as the lift ascended. 'Third floor, was it?' _Tommy tapped his toe like that, too. Usually when David was getting agitated about something, but ... actually, Tommy did it a little diff-_

The lift was full of girls. Girls who were giggling and nudging each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcel saw... whatever his name was stand a little straighter and push his chest out, confident smirk flitting across his face. Until the girls surrounded Marcel. Once he'd told them that yes, playing DC was as fantastic as it sounded, and yes, he did know Rafa and Feli, and no, he couldn't give them their numbers they'd gone. The lift moved on.

'Like I said. I don't care, bigshot Davis Cup star. Oleksandr Dolgopolov Jr isn't intimidated by bigshot Davis Cup stars, so you needn't get carried away.' Marcel supposed the sniff was intended to be haughty rather than suggesting hay fever, but before he'd had chance to introduce himself the guy was gone. Marcel carried his own bags to his room and started unpacking.

~*~

Oleksandr had never met anyone like Marcel before. He'd been in Morocco two weeks already, and made three finals—if people were going to be fawning and fussing over anyone, it should be him. Not some lanky, clumsy beanpole with stupidly long eyelashes. ...not that Oleksandr had been studying the eyelashes, or anything. The Spaniard made no attempt to use them, either. Just smiled good-naturedly at everyone, let them chivvy him about from pillar to post, answered every question as though he were really interested in them and didn't seem remotely bothered by the fact that the sand got everywhere. I mean, seriously. Everywhere. He had enough heat treatments and protective stuff for his hair, but he never ceased to be amazed at the quantity he brushed out every night. Not to mention that which fell out of his shorts. Every time he ventured outsiside Oleksandr saw people fidgetting and randomly scratching sand out of unnecessary places, and yet Marcel just loped along regardless; only speaking to people when he was spoken to—and usually managing to turn the conversation to Tommy Robredo.

Stepping over the small dune he'd just brushed out of his hair/tipped out of his clothing, Olesksandr headed for the bathroom. He quite thought he'd like to get to know Marcel better. He'd make a good pet.

~*~

It was as though Marcel had acquired a shadow. No matter what he was doing – be it hitting with Alberto or Ruben, eating his lunch in the canteen (he always sat in a different corner so he was out of the way, but it never seemed to deter his stalker) or training in the gym, the Ukrainian was there too (usually making a big show of his presence). He would exclaim loudly about the coincidence of them being on adjoining practice courts as he practiced his serve (that made him look like he was having a sneezing fit); he would make loud conversation with a variety of sycophants at the meal table (usually revolving around how fabulous he was); he would complain about the sand in his socks and how the person using the machines before him was obviously a wimp. His easy confidence and self-assurance was fascinating. Marcel wished he had a half of it—not that he was awestruck, or anything. Just… a little envious. Maybe. He just wasn't sure why he was on the receiving end of so many ostentatious displays of superiority. Or why he was subjected to so many dirty looks in the process.

Alberto had been livid after his first round match against Oleksandr; claiming he was on the wrong tour and would be better off playing the women's ITF meeting in France. As he sat himself at the back of the stands for the second-round match against Bozoljac Marcel told himself he was only there because he was playing the winner. Having made it through the first round it was only natural to check out the opposition, right? And it wasn't exactly as if he were _hiding_ , it's just… it was easier to get out from there. You know, if he needed a drink or anything. What with Morocco being so… hot. The smug smirk Oleksandr sent directly at him suggested that the Ukrainian thought otherwise.

~*~

  


> **12.03.10 SECOND ROUND: Ilija Bozoljac (SRB) def. [1] Oleksandr Dolgopolov Jr (UKR) 6-4 6-1**  
>  There was a shock result in this rain-delayed match as the top seed was bounced out in just over an hour's total play. He seemed distracted and was unable to capitalise on the many break points the careless shots of his Serbian opponent offered him, and was clearly less than impressed with his own performance. Bozoljac will now face Marcel Granollers after a suitable rest period, after the Spaniard despatched Thierry Ascione in straight sets.

  


Stupid, showboating Serb. Who on earth did he think he was, with all his flouncing and shouting, and those ridiculous sunglasses he wore. It was no wonder he'd lost concentration. Oleksandr was aware of a vague sense of shame at how he'd reacted during his loss, but who wouldn't have thrown their racquet in the face of such deliberate provocation? OK, maybe breaking the second one was a bit much, but Oleksandr wasn't used to being humiliated like that. Not here, anyway – and especially not in front of excitable Spanish beanpoles with stupid fluffy haircuts.

He couldn't wait to see how Marcel dealt with Bozoljac's games and whining. No lurking at the back for him, oh no. Oleksandr made sure he was sitting right across from Marcel's chair, and even thrown him a thumbs up and a wink to unsettle him. (He suspected the effect was lost a bit as Marcel had merely held his gaze serenely as he set two bananas on the seat beside him.) This was going to be fun.

~*~

  


> **12.03.10 THIRD ROUND – [5] Marcel Granollers (ESP) def. Ilija Bozoljac (SRB) 6-0 6-3**  
>  Lengthy medical time-outs and heated discussions with both the chair umpire and the trainer were not enough to keep Bozoljac in this tournament, as he succumbed in straight sets to Granollers. Barely getting a look in at the ball in the first set, he called for assistance before the start of the second—and again during the course of it; but the Spanish steamroller was not to be stopped. He will meet Rui Machado tomorrow morning in the semi final, with the final being played at 2:30pm.

  


Marcel was relieved that was over. He knew emotions ran high during matches – he himself was occasionally guilty of outbursts that caused his mama to threaten to feed him a bar of soap – but Bozoljac took volatility to a whole new level. He was towelling his hair dry in the locker room when Oleksandr sauntered in. He looked Marcel up and down, leant casually against the bank of lockers and studied his fingernails.

'So, how did you do that, then?'

'Um. I don't know. I guess I… got more points than him. Isn't that how you normally win matches?'

'Are you really that dense? I meant, how did you not strangle him? He was acting like a primadonna, demanding attention from the umpire and trainer in a blatant attempt to disrupt you, he practically _demanded_ they fuss over him and you… ate a banana.'

'I was hungry.' Marcel shrugged and gestured at his locker, which was blocked by six foot of studiedly nonchalant Ukrainian. 'Um, excuse me please. I need my sweatshirt.'

'Oh. Right.' Oleksandr reached into the open locker behind him and handed over the hoodie (it smelt of oranges). 'You were hungry. The biggest, flounciest drama queen in the history of big, flouncy drama queens has a narcissistic hissy fit during a changeover, and you barely even notice because you're _hungry_?'

Marcel managed to stifle the snort at this princess denouncing someone else as a drama queen and shrugged.

'I've played with Feli. I'm used to tantrums. I just tune them out.'

Gratified to note that the look Oleksandr was giving him was almost tinged with awe, Marcel put on his sweatshirt, picked up his bags and left.

Although Oleksandr was less blatant after that, Marcel still noticed him hovering at all sorts of moments. Having been in the stands for all of his matches (his winks and thumbs ups becoming gradually less laced with sarcasm) Marcel was unsurprised when Oleksandr slid into the seat beside him on the bus as the circus made its way to Marrakech.

~*~

Against his better judgement, Oleksandr found himself enjoying Marcel's company. Either he was oblivious to the digs Oleksandr gave, or he genuinely wasn't bothered by them, and the lack of reaction was refreshing. Instead of 'coincidentally' hitting at the same time on an adjoining court, Oleksandr asked if they could practice together, and their sessions were surprisingly productive. (Dmitri was not impressed, especially when they lost their first round doubles match – to the Serbian twat and a poncy Italian, no less – but Marcel and Andujar lost theirs too, which sort of balanced things out), and Oleksandr was entertained to discover that Marcel had both a dry wit and a sharp line in caricatures. (Which is why much of their practice sessions were spent drawing and making fun of the other players, with not so much practising. Which is why they lost the doubles. Which is why Dmitri wasn't talking to him.)

As he put the finishing touches to an exaggerated sketch of Jarkko Nieminen Marcel stretched out his other arm and nudged Oleksandr in the chest (he didn't know his own strength, the great lump, it hurt).

'I beat this beaky Finn tomorrow, and then I get to thrash you. I hope you're ready.'

'Oh, please. As if you could ever beat me. I seem to recall I trounced you six Wimbledons to two in practice this morning. Which is why I'm ranked in the top 100 and you're... rubbish.'

Marcel's smile was inscrutable (and insufferable, how dare he not be impressed?) and he reached for his beer from Oleksandr's nightstand. 'What if I let you win? We shall see.'

~*~

  


> **20.03.10 SEMI-FINAL [2] Jarkko Nieminen (FIN) def. [6] Marcel Granollers 7-5 6-7(3) 7-5**  
>  In a tough-fought match lasting two and three-quarter hours it was the higher-seeded Finn who emerged victorious. Both men played well, and it was only in the eleventh game of the first set that service was broken. It took a tiebreak to settle the second, which Granollers took after going 0-3 down, but an early break in the third sealed the Spaniard's fate. Nieminen will play the top seed in tomorrow's final, the first time this tour that this has happened.

  


Nearly three whole hours. And he'd lost. That'd teach him to brag. Marcel curled up in the armchair and told himself not to be an idiot. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd lost, and it certainly wasn't like he _wanted_ to play Olek- ..Sasha. Even so, the knock on his door was welcome. And yes, of course he knew who it was – who else would it have been at mealtime? It didn't mean it meant anything. 

'Hey. My turn to be your knight in shining armour, huh? Can't trust Finns as far as you can- what on earth are you wearing?'

Marcel blushed hotly as the amused gaze swept down over his Tigger pyjamas, but he jutted his chin defiantly.

'Never seen pyjamas before… Sasha? Perhaps you're more used to frilly nighties, princess.'

The beetroot colour flooding Sasha's face was well worth the shove that sent Marcel sprawling on the bed. He explained that he'd overheard Sasha talking on the phone the day before.

'Next time you get all indignant at your mama calling you Sasha, you might want to do it in a more private place. Or at a lower volume. Now, tell me how you're going to vindicate my honour tomorrow.'

~*~

  


> **21.03.10 FINAL [2] Jarkko Nieminen (FIN) def. [1] Oleksandr Dolgopolov Jr 6-3 6-2**  
>  It took less than an hour for this final to be decided, Nieminen running out a clear winner after a mere fifty-five minutes. Dolgopolov surrendered his serve in the fourth game, and never really looked like recovering. Gaining a mere eight points on his opponent's serve in the second set, the top seed looked listless and exhausted, and Nieminen coasted to the trophy.

  


Why didn't anything go according to plan? Why didn't he get to be the one to be smug like Marcel had been in beating Bozoljac? Well, OK. He hadn't been smug. But he'd had the _opportunity_ to be smug; it wasn't Sasha's fault he'd been too daft to take it. Because he was right: you couldn't trust Finns. He couldn't even say he'd fought more than Marcel had. In fact, whatever way you looked at it it was pretty embarrassing. Well, sod that. He'd been playing for the last four weeks solid, maybe it was time he had a break. An adventure. escape from it all. A few phone calls later, and it was all sorted. Now he just needed to get Marcel to go along with his plans. 

  


~*~

Marcel didn't know whether to be more alarmed at the fact that the flier was under his pillow, or at what it was suggesting. They had both signed up to play Barletta – they should, in fact, be packing up now as their flight was in four hours – but he couldn't deny it sounded tempting. He'd only bunked off school once before (and that was only because Gerard had double-dared him and called him a coward – he'd not known what to do with himself the entire day and spent it worrying about being caught); he supposed that, at nearly twenty-four, it was probably about time he did something foolhardy.

Secretly, if he was honest with himself, he was a little thrilled to have been invited. He didn't really mind that no-one paid him much attention (he enjoyed the quiet life), but it did feel nice to be noticed – to be chosen. He'd never really had a close best friend (not since Estéban had moved away when he was eight), he liked Sasha, and when you thought about it riding camels across the desert sounded a lot more fun than going to some small town in Italy to play more tennis. Having made his decision, he added his own note to the flier and posted it back under Sasha's door.

  


~*~

Camels were a lot bigger than you realised, Sasha mused. And ... scabby. They stood in their line, shuffling their feet and looking disdainful while their guides went through the briefing. Sasha made a concerted effort to listen to what they had to say as it was clear that Marcel, gazing round the camp with possibly the goofiest, most awestruck expression Sasha had ever seen, was taking nothing in. The guide was still talking, and Sasha started to tune him out. How hard could it be, anyway? He adjusted his headdress (Marcel had been embarrassingly excited about their Berber costumes, he'd not taken his off since they got them yesterday) and imagined himself as Lawrence of Arabia; turning heads as he galloped effortlessly across the dunes, looking elegant and slightly dangerous. He wondered how long it would be before Marcel fell off.

They had only travelled a few miles before Sasha had been forced to rethink his daydream. Marcel had taken to it like a duck to water: loping along like he belonged in the saddle; challenging anyone and everyone to races (and usually winning); all the while wearing that childlike, infectious grin of his. Nothing seemed to faze him, Sasha thought (somewhat bitterly as he himself was fazed for roughly the seventy-eighth time by his camel taking offence to that particular grain of sand right there). He just took everything in his stride – perpetually good natured, verging occasionally on the excessively enthusiastic.

Sasha's train of thought was abruptly derailed by his camel (hereafter re-christened You Bastard, he decided) dumping him unceremoniously in the sand. For the third time.

'Hey, you all right down there?' Marcel trotted over, brought his camel to a delicate halt and offered a hand to pull him up.

'Oh, fine. Just thought I'd have a quick sunbathe. You know, not got enough sand in my crevices yet.' It was hard not to poke his tongue out.

'Your headdress is all wonky,' Marcel threw carelessly over his shoulder as he galloped off again. Sasha's response was unrepeatable.

A couple of hours later they stopped for lunch. Sasha and You Bastard had developed an _entente_ ...well, if not exactly _cordiale_ , at least no longer _homicide_. Eating a second sfenj Sasha realised that he was actually relaxing. It didn't matter that his hair was a bird's nest, that his dignity was being persistently compromised, that he was probably further away from running water than he'd ever been in his life. He was learning that there were times when things like that weren't important. What was important, he discovered a short while later, was a good supply of Kwells. He was feeling decidedly seasick.

~*~

The last couple of days had been brilliant. It turned out Marcel was actually quite good at camel riding, and that racing through the desert under the heat of the sun was actually quite exhilarating. He really needn't have worried about showing himself up, after all. Camping was also great fun, it had been ages since he'd slept in a sleeping bag (it reminded him of summer nights in the back yard with Gerard when they were kids), and he'd even managed to put the tent up (properly) at the first try last night. The scenery was spectacular, and he'd even had chance on a couple of rest breaks to use the sketch book he'd brought just in case.

It was possible, though, that Sasha wasn't enjoying it to quite the same degree – although Marcel was pretty sure that the complaints he was making loudly on an hourly basis were exaggerated for dramatic effect. Mind you, his face as it had dawned on him that there were actually no toilets in the desert and that he'd have to dig his own hole was probably 100% genuine. (Too many romantic notions, Marcel reckoned, and not enough common sense.) He'd finally stopped falling off You Bastard now, and had even agreed when Marcel had suggested a race as they'd approached Chegaga yesterday afternoon. In hindsight, though, it had probably been a mistake to inform Sasha that there was a shower, a bed and an actual, proper toilet waiting for them when they got there. Marcel quite literally hadn't seen him for dust.

They'd spent last night (or what was left of it once Sasha had finished his three-hour shower – what on earth could you possibly do in a shower for that long?) watching the sun set over the dunes, and talking about their aspirations. Sasha was confident that he would break the top ten within three years, and win a Grand Slam before his twenty-fifth birthday; Marcel was more content with getting back into the top fifty, and perhaps even staying there. Sasha told him not to be daft, that anything was possible and they idly imagined a future in which they moved on from tennis (having achieved everything there was to achieve) – Sasha to a spell as a World Rally Champion and Marcel to score the winning goal in the Champions League final for Espanyol. Marcel was a little envious of Sasha's breezy confidence, but when morning came and he was fighting to saddle You Bastard while Marcel effortlessly threw himself onto the back of Bloody Stupid and rode off he realised that confidence wasn't always what it was cracked up to be.

~*~

  


> _'Hello, mama... yes, I'm fine, why wouldn't I-- ...oh, that. I know, Mama, but I-- ...I'm in the desert, Mama. We've been camel trek- yes, I know, I-- ...we did ring the Barletta organisers and tell them, you-- ...yes, you did bring me up with proper manners, Mama, I-- ...Sasha Dolgopolov, no, you don't know him, but we-- ...he's my friend, Mama. No, he's not a bad influence, he-- ...no, he didn't blackmail me, I wanted to come, I-- ...we've got three more days yet, we're-- ...oh. OK. Oh, all right then. I'll tell him. I'll-- ... I'll see if I can get a flight tomorr-- ...please don't cry, Mama, I didn't mean to worry you, I-- ...I'm sorry. I'll see you soon. I-- ...I love you too, Mama. Bye-bye.'_

  


Sasha tried to keep a straight face as Marcel put his phone away, but failed dismally.

'You're such a mama's boy. Does she want her poor ickle Marcelito to come home?'

'Shut up. She was just worried, that's all. Because _you_ wouldn't let me tell her where we were going.' It was hard to harrumph indignantly on the back of a camel, but Marcel gave it his best shot.

Sasha smirked and continued to expound upon how funny it was that he, the younger of the two, was fully free from his mother's apron strings while Marcel was still clearly firmly tied. He was just embarking on a lofty (and lengthy) discourse on how Eastern Europeans were Real Men, while Spaniards (and Italians, and possibly the French too, Sasha was undecided) were great big girls who couldn't so much as fart without maternal permission, when he was interrupted by his own phone. The start he gave when he identified the particular ringtone could not even be accredited to You Bastard (who was being surprisingly... un-bastard-y). Turning away from Marcel, Sasha reluctantly answered his phone.

'Zdravstvuy̆te, mama.'

~*~

The mint tea was stronger than Marcel realised (he dreaded to think with what Sasha had spiked it, or how he'd got whatever ...spike-y thing it was, but Sasha had been insistent as it was their last night). He only came to this realisation when he got up to water a sand dune and discovered that his legs were no longer his from the knees down. Sasha's pointing and laughing at his new-born fawn impression were abruptly halted when Marcel fell in his lap, and it was only sheer luck that kept the tent from collapsing as they struggled to disentangle themselves.

Still slightly giggly as he returned to the tent, Marcel was surprised to find Sasha looking sombre. Well, it was either sombre or constipated, Marcel was undecided. Brow furrowed in concentration, Sasha seemeed to be contemplating some great life philosophy. After a few aborted attempts (which caused him to look like a guppy, which caused Marcel's giggles to return uncontrollably) he eventually imparted his great wisdom.

'S'been fun, hasn't it. You know... this.' His expansive gesture encompassing 'this' put the tent at a second risk of collapse, but his face was almost glowing with sincerity.

'Fun? How have you had fun? You've done nothing but whine the whole time: bad-tempered camels, no proper hairdrying facilities, too much sand. Don't wanna know what you'd describes as a crap time, then.'

'No, you stupid Spaniard. This. You. Us. It's been fun. Nice. ...Fun.'

Marcel felt himself blushing and looked away. 'Yeah,' he mumbled, 'It has been fun. Nobody telling us what to do, no expectations, no pressure. Freedom.

'And, of course, I've been excellent company.' Marcel didn't think he'd seen even Nico look as smug as Sasha as he stretched out on the satin cushions.

'Excellent company. If you like vain, melodramatic self-obsessed princesses.'

'Granollers, you wound me, you great lump. You cut me to the very core. And after I let you call me Sasha, too.' The exaggerated pout was ridiculous, and they both collapsed into giggles as Marcel collapsed into the cushions. He poured them both another... half-glass (had they really drunk it all?) and leaned companionably on Sasha's shoulder, beaming dopily.

'It has been great. I really enjoyed it, it's a shame we have to go home tomorrow. I'm- I'm glad we're friends.'

'I'm glad we're friends, too. Hey, you know what, we should do this again.'

'What, camel riding? What if you end up with You Bastard again?'

'Not camel riding, just... something. Anything. Getting away. Having an adventure.'

Marcel raised his glass and clinked it gently against Sasha's (well, he'd meant it to be gentle, but it still somehow resulted in spillage). 'To adventures.'

~*~

They never did get round to it, despite all their good intentions. Monte Carlo had been fun – especially watching everyone's bemused reactions as they hung out together – and they had not lost as much as they'd feared they would in the casino, but then things had got a little crazy. In Barcelona Marcel couldn't move without a member of his family surgically attached to him (usually his annoying little brother), and he'd been sulking in Madrid. Sasha had found himself in the third round at Roland Garros (he still couldn't quite believe he'd beaten Gonzalez), and then he'd also had good runs at Eastbourne and Wimbledon (while Marcel had been distracted by doubles). While his being brilliant was... well, brilliant, it did mean that it left him less time to be irresponsible. People seemed to want more of his time, and his and Marcel's paths crossed increasingly infrequently.

They had planned to explore the Grand Canyon in the second week of the US Open, but Marcel had spoiled it by still being in the doubles (oh, OK, it was great to see him so excited, doing so well, but it totally screwed with their plans), and then he'd been nagged into playing some Challenger with Gerard. There had been talk of doing something to finish off the season (as they'd barely played the same tournaments after that), but then Sasha had hurt his ankle and Marcel had made the Valencia final (jammy git), which in turn got him into Paris. It had been impossible to do anything over Christmas (not to mention too damn cold), but now, on a high from taking out the top seed in Sydney, Sasha thought it was time to make something happen.

The internet was a wonderful thing – you could find almost anything you wanted if you knew where to look – and there was still enough time to get his Subaru shipped over to meet them in Perth. Sasha smiled as he sealed the envelope and addressed it to an Auckland hotel. This was going to be fun.

  


FIN

**FOOTNOTES, TO HELP WITH YOUR UNDERSTANDING**  
1\. Alexandr Dolgopolov is called Oleksandr in much of this, for this is [the name with which he was born](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandr_Dolgopolov). Sometime round about Nice last year he formally changed the spelling to Alexandr. Possibly because it's easier for Westerners to spell when he makes it big, possibly so he could drop the 'Jr' at the end.  
2\. The Rabat Challenger was the week after the first round of the Davis Cup, in which Marcel had [played (and won) doubles with Tommy Robredo](http://www.daviscup.com/en/results/tie/details.aspx?tieId=100014442). The Marrakech Challenger was the following week.  
3\. The week after that was the Barletta Challenger in Italy, for which they were [both on the entry list](http://img210.imageshack.us/img210/8725/ipartecipantiquattordic.png), but for which neither turned up. Obviously, they went camel trekking instead.  
4\. I have no idea how they players transferred from one to the other, but seeing as most of them played both (many, like Sandra, played all four) I like the idea of a bus shuttling all these boys about.  
5\. Ilija Bozoljac is [a whining princess](http://img3.imageshack.us/img3/8541/dsc26884438638.jpg). He did [play in sunglasses and a bandanna](http://img11.imageshack.us/img11/7800/56b2087413.jpg). The banana incident is not made up; it is the moment when I knew I had fallen in love with Marcel. Alas, I cannot find footage of it anywhere.  
6\. They did both play the same people consecutively in the two Challengers. The results and associated facts are true, the reports are all figments of my imagination. Details of the Morocco Challenger tour [from the website](http://www.arryadia.com/mtt/) ~~and my memory~~. (They also both lost their first-round doubles matches in Marrakech. Possibly not because they'd spent too much time ~bonding~, but a girl can dream.)  
7\. Gerard is Marcel's [kid brother](http://img407.imageshack.us/img407/5509/92632948.jpg), Alberto is Alberto Martin, Dmitri is Dmitri Sitak, who was Sandra's doubles partner at both Rabat and Marrakech.  
8\. Jarkko Nieminen [is a bit beaky](http://img411.imageshack.us/img411/9874/jarkkonieminen90624b222.jpg).  
9\. [These are the Tigger Pyjamas](http://www.disneystore.co.uk/nightwear-slippers-mens-tigger-pyjamas-can-be-personalised/p/30795/312202/#) Marcel was wearing.  
10\. The [camel trek they took](http://www.saharadreamsmaroc.com/gen/treks-bivouacs/camel_trekking_and_week_across_64.htm) is a real one. The flier Sasha stashes under Marcel's pillow isn't. That's a result of my l33t PS skillz.  
11\. Likewise, the [Outback driving tour](http://www.australiasgoldenoutback.com/en/Outback_drive_routes/Outback_for_wheel_drive_routes/Pages/Gunbarrel_Highway.aspx) is real, but the flier is all made up.  
12\. Marcel's handwriting is [Loved By the King](http://www.dafont.com/loved-by-the-king.font). I knew that the minute I laid eyes on him. Sasha's took longer to find, but I eventually settled on [Pea Missing You](http://kevinandamanda.com/fonts/fontsforpeas/pea-missing-you/).  
13\. You Bastard the camel is shamelessly stolen from [Terry Pratchett's Discworld](http://www.lspace.org/books/whos-who/you-bastard.html).  
14\. Title from the song Midnight at the Oasis. Oh, come on, it's the only song I could think of that mentions deserts and camels.


End file.
